


repetition's the harm

by polkaprintpjs



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Assault, Bad therapist, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Harm, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25863256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkaprintpjs/pseuds/polkaprintpjs
Summary: “It was your room, Whirl, and I know you’re not scared but I am, Birdy. I’m really, really worried about how bad they hurt you- and in your own room! Thats-” He goes quiet.Whirl’s tanks twist guiltily, but not enough for him to speak, not enough for him to vomit his sins at Tailgate’s tiny feet. He can’t do that, can’t stand the thought of it.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl (Transformers)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> rung is a bad therapist, especially to whirl. skip to the first page break to avoid graphic description of self harm via head impact; check end notes for non-graphic summary of that section

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was your room, Whirl, and I know you’re not scared but I am, Birdy. I’m really, really worried about how bad they hurt you- and in your own room! Thats-” He goes quiet.   
> Whirl’s tanks twist guiltily, but not enough for him to speak, not enough for him to vomit his sins at Tailgate’s tiny feet. He can’t do that, can’t stand the thought of it

Whirl vents unsteadily. When the static clears enough he can move without risking his balance, even slumped on the floor against the wall, he lifts his helm and slams it sideways into the wall. Ffffuck. That was a good one, dizziness overwhelming the dull pain until he felt he was floating. He doesn’t bother checking his chrono- he has another offshift before anyone would be looking for him. 

Another thud and the impact shudders through his struts and he shivers with it. No one would look for him anyway, no matter how late he was. He just sits for a minute, helm resting against the wall. He can feel mechanisms stutter and catch, the indentation in the wall, the drip of energon from when he’d gotten the angle wrong and wrenched a finial nearly in two. 

It takes a while for the thumping to register as outside stimuli and not the droning whirr of his fuel pump. He dismisses it, lets his optic dim. Whatever it is can wait, he’s got a pleasant haze to float in. 

The noise changes rhythm, a heavy staccato thud thud  _ thump _ that sends a spike of irritation through the fuzz. Instead of getting up and dealing with whoever the fuck wants his attention so bad, Whirl knocks his helm into the wall again. Not as hard this time, but it still sends his thoughts reeling. 

Yeah, alright, maybe someone would make an effort to find him, just to make his life that much more miserable. 

Dimly, he’s aware the light in his room’s shifted, someone is talking, their energy field brushing against his in a way that makes him want to recoil and crawl across the floor towards them. 

A big hand wraps around his helm, tilts it away from the wall. He misses the stability, a bit, except the hand is warm and he’s starting to feel cold and dizzy which isn’t nearly as fun as warm and dizzy. Another voice joins in, then maybe another and maybe they’re yelling, but maybe not. It’s so hard to tell. 

He’s brought back by a  _ shove _ , a disorienting moment of absolute weightlessness. The hand pressing his helm into the floor, grinding it in. Too late his self preservation kicks in and he lashes out, gets a claw around an ankle and  _ yanks. _

The rest of it is blurry in a way he knows is unrelated to the helm injuries, the haze of  _ pain _ giving way to the haze of  _ fight _ .

* * *

Whirl is warm and he’s pathetically glad. 

The ache throughout his body and the throbbing of his helm, he’s less grateful for; but considering the last time he beat himself unconscious, this is a vast improvement. Or, it is until he onlines his optic and sees he’s in medbay; then he wishes he’d been left cold in his hab. He offlines his optic immediately and pretends he’s still unconscious.

It doesn’t work. 

“Whirl,” Tailgate says, quiet. 

Whirl’s spark squeezes in his chest a bit. The optic stays off, though. He’s not sure why Legs is here, but he’s sure as shit not gonna just open himself up to questions  _ that _ easy. 

“Whirl,” Tailgate repeats, then just keeps talking. “Whirl, I have to leave soon, Ratchet came by earlier to let me know visiting hours end in a few minutes. I just- damn it, Birdy, will you  _ please _ just look at me?” 

Whirl doesn’t. He can’t stand the thought, even, so he doesn’t, just keeps his vents even. 

“I don’t know why they did that, but Ultra Magnus is talking to them- investigating and stuff.” Tailgate and Whirl sit in silence for a bit before he starts talking again. 

“We- Cyc and I- we were talking about how maybe our hab is big enough for three. The berth is, anyway.” 

Whirl knows it is; he and Cyclonus dragged the thing in and assembled it in the first place. 

“It was your room, Whirl, and I know you’re not scared but I am, Birdy. I’m really, really worried about how bad they hurt you- and in your own room! Thats-” He goes quiet.   
Whirl’s tanks twist guiltily, but not enough for him to speak, not enough for him to vomit his sins at Tailgate’s tiny feet. He can’t do that, can’t stand the thought of it. 

It’s a long minute before Tailgate sighs, hops out of his chair. Whirl tracks the little guy’s progress to the door by sound alone- his audials don’t even strain. Tailgate’s tiny, sure, but his ancient systems don’t run quiet. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Birdy. Try to recharge, okay?” 

And then he’s gone and Whirl can hear Ratchet make his way this side of medbay. He onlines his optic out of habit- call him paranoid, but he doesn’t like medics doing shit where he can’t see them. Ratchet flicks the scanner’s beam over him- a heavily saturated green even his shitty optic can pick up. He shoves himself up, ignores the doc’s irritated grumble; flops right back down to rest on his elbows, the wrong side of dizzy. 

Shit, there’s no way he’s gonna be able to talk Ratchet into letting him walk out of here. He doesn’t bother trying, just lets himself back down the rest of the way nice and gentle. 

Ratchet doesn’t waste time, either, just gets right down to it. 

“Any pain? Excessive dizziness?” 

Whirl lets his helm flop to the side, the better to squint. 

“Nah, not now that the chatterbox’s gone. Look, sock it to me straight- that’s how you say it if you’re a squishy, yeah?- am I gonna make it?” 

Ratchet snorts, and if Whirl was any more tired he’d call it  _ fond _ . But that’s stupid and he’s not that out of it, so he doesn’t. “Oh, you’ll live. For now, at least. You’re spending a minimum of two orn under observation- ahp bap, don’t interrupt me- and then you’ll be released, pending an exit exam, with at least 3 visits to Rung over the next decivorn. Clear enough?” 

Whirl catches himself tensing, rolls his entire helm dramatically to compensate. 

“Aw, c’mon doc, two whole orns? Really? Now that’s just excessive- '' Ratchet doesn’t slam the scanner down, but Whirl knows it’s a close thing. “-this is a two  _ joor _ injury at best.” 

Ratchet turns abruptly and marches himself right over to the counter, starts pulling tools out of a bin. Whirl’s been in medbay enough to know the doc’s getting ready to sterilize them. 

“You are under observation for one shift due to your injuries, and the remainder of the orn and the next during the investigation of the incident..” 

He doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, which is just too bad ‘cause Whirl’s gonna give him one anyway. 

“It ain’t as bad as all that, doc. Two orns for a lump on the helm? Pah.” 

Ratchet drops the tools into the correct slots in the machine’s tray. Whirl tips his helm back, counts the ceiling tiles as he listens to the busywork. 

“Two orns to ensure the repairs took.” The sounds at the countertop get more pointed. “Less time if you’d offer some suggestions as to who was involved- Tailgate apparently only recognised two of them before the rest bolted.” 

Whirl lets his vocalizer fizzle out static instead of answering. Ratchet sighs as he slides the machine closed and taps a preset to run it. 

“I’m giving Rung a comm and letting him know you’re up. Don’t make that noise at me, it’s protocol.” 

Whirl makes it again, just to be irritating. 

He entertains himself by making evenly spaced nicks on the protective rails of the medberth, one side at a time. He’s almost halfway down his chassis from his helm before Rung is there, carefully setting his datapad on the side table before sitting in Tailgate’s chair. 

“Hello, Whirl. I heard there was a bit of an incident earlier, are you feeling alright?” 

Whirl notes Ratchet making himself scarce as he flares his field to prod against Rung’s; he catches the same general blandness as always, with an undercurrent of- irritation, maybe? It’s pretty fucking annoying to have to show up at medbay this late yet again, he guesses. That’s probably it. He feels a little bad about it- this is Rung’s job, yeah, but he cares enough to still show up, irritated or not. 

“Never better, eyebrows. Nev-ver bet-ter. How’s it going on the free side of the tracks, eh?” 

He squints at Rung hopefully- maybe he’ll answer, he’s not that upset, right?- and Rung just looks right back. 

“Whirl, I was informed that Quickstep- one of your attackers- said you were already injured when he came in. In fact, he seemed to think you had injured yourself.” 

Whirl snorts theatrically, flops his arms a bit in a shrug. 

“Look, eyebrows, I was just knocking the ol’ brain pan back into place, yeah? Stuff starts rattling around up there, you know how it is.” Rung hums a bit. Whirl appreciates that, really. People take him at his word most of the time, except when disbelief is more convenient; Rung, though, he always believes him. It’s nice. 

“Ah, I see. Would you say it helped?” 

Whirl doesn’t take his optic off Rung. He can hear a commotion coming down the hall, dismisses it as unimportant. It’s the Lost Light, shit it always wild. 

“Felt real good, I’ll tell you that. Yeah, it helped.” 

Rung nods, once, moves on. 

“I’m glad. It’s good to have an effective coping mechanism. Now, I must ask- did you recognize any of the mecha who attacked you?” 

Whirl shakes his helm, thunks it back against the medberth’s padding. 

“Nah, didn’t hear ‘em come in.” The impact makes him remember that floating daze, and he does it again without thinking about it, harder this time. “I’ll let you or shoulderpads know if I remember, yeah?” 

Rung nods out of the corner of his optic. 

“Yes, that’s just fine-” Rung’s cut off when the doors bang open and Drift and Rodimus stumble in. They look like they rammed into a wall a few times, so probably ‘sparring practice’, which Whirl is pretty sure is code for ‘beating the shit outta each other so we don’t murder our crew’. 

Which, fair.

Ratchet marches out of the office and takes one look at them before gesturing to a pair of medberths near Whirl. 

“Sit down before you fall down,” he orders, pinching his nose. 

He heads to grab whatever stuff he needs to fix the captain and the captain’s enabler, and Whirl lifts his helm again to drop it down again. It’s not as satisfying as a wall, not as forceful, but he’ll take it. The pain is better than the weird ache in his helm and spark. 

“Didn’t you just get that fixed?” Drift says, like his opinion matters. “Maybe you shouldn’t fuck it up before you get out of medbay?” 

Whirl huffs loudly as he lifts his helm again and prepares to snark back, but Ratchet is there, sliding an extra pillow under his helm. 

“Whirl, knock that off. Drift, shut up, you may know the circumstances but you shouldn’t be talking about it. Rodimus, aft on the berth or I’m welding it there.” 

The doc heads over to berate Drift and Rodimus up close and personal, ‘till Rung decides to join the conversation.

“Yes, Drift, I must ask that you not disrupt my patient’s self-soothing, it’s important that Whirl is able to handle any flare-ups without violence.” 

Whirl feels hot shame across his spark-  _ self-soothing _ is one of those things they throw around when you rock too much or hum too much or drink too much- and he shoves back into the pillow a bit. Ratchet stops dead and half-turns to give Rung an incredulous look. 

“I’m sorry, you’re  _ encouraging him _ ? Rung, his helm was cracked a few joors ago, he should not be  _ moving _ , let alone actively causing  _ more _ cranial trauma!” 

Whirl freezes, blinks his optic at Ratchet. 

Huh? 

“Whoa now, doc,” he says, scrabbles to sit up. “Look, if the issue’s the repairs- it’s just fine, just gotta knock shit back into place, yeah?” 

“Uh, no?” Says their wonderful captain, giving him a weird look. “That’s not how that works, like, at all. I know literally nothing about helm injuries and even I know that’s not how it works.” 

Whirl’s getting ready to fire back when Drift cuts in. 

“Rung, he seems to think that the solution to actual brain damage and years of physical and mental trauma is more brain damage. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that your job to help him not do that?” 

Whirl does not appreciate all these people getting on Rung’s case, or  _ his _ for that matter. Rung frowns at all three of them, sitting up straighter. 

“It helps calm him down, and he seems to draw comfort from it-” 

Ratchet throws up his hands. He’s looking at Rung like he’s never seen him before. 

“Yeah, no. Rung, my office, now. Whirl, stay put. Drift, Rodimus, leave him alone. I’m calling in First Aid to deal with you two and keep an eye on him.” 

Rung makes like he’s gonna argue, but Whirl beats him to it. 

“It ain’t a big thing,” he says, level and cold. 

He can tell Drift tenses up, and Rodimus isn’t far behind. 

“It is a big thing, Whirl. Self harm is not something to encourage, and Rung should be helping you find something else- not giving you the go-ahead to continue hurting yourself.” Ratchet matches him tone for tone.

Whirl finds himself grasping for words, and that just won’t do. 

“It’s not, doc. I dunno what you’re on, but it’s not.” 

Ratchet ignores that, just nods at First Aid as he comes in. 

“I’ll be in my office, ‘Aid. Refer to the files I just sent over if you need anything. Rung, after you.” 

Rung gives Ratchet one last look, then hops out of the chair. 

They step into Ratchet’s office, doc closing the door after him, and Whirl is stuck with the Wrecker groupie and the dynamic duo. 

Whoopee. 


	2. Chapter 2

Whirl settles his plating uneasily, hovering outside Teeg and Cyc’s hab.  _ Their _ hab, if he wants. He’s not sure he wants. Okay, scratch that. He wants, but there’s a thousand reasons that’s a bad idea and the weld marks on his helm are proof of item no. 479.

He gives the door one last look, then keeps on keeping down the hall. 

Yeah, no. 

His tank still wrenches with something like guilt every time he thinks about Tailgate’s sad little speech and sad field and- and  _ Swerve’s _ , now there’s an idea. 

He cuts down a c-hall, ignores the way a group of chatty kathys make a point to turn their backs. Like he’d care what they thought. He still has to toggle his auto-targeting system off, though.

Whirl clicks his claws idly as he walks. 

This whole decivorn’s been a fucking waste, that’s what. 

Swerve’s just opening when he ducks through the door, and when he checks who’s already here it’s a grand total of four- Stormy’s in a booth already with his beaus and Nautica. Whirl shrugs a shoulder when Stormy looks over and grins his way, makes a beeline for the bar. Much as he likes Stormy, what he  _ really _ wants is  _ booze _ . 

Swerve makes a rude noise from the other end and Whirl spits static right back. 

“Oh, no. Nope. Not open, come back later.” 

Whirl props his helm on a claw, flickers his optic. 

“Now, now. You’re not really gonna turn away your best customer, are ya?” 

Swerve doesn’t bother looking his way as he finishes up whatever it is he’s doing. 

“My best customer actually  _ pays _ , Whirl. You, on the other hand, just harass Tailgate until he gets Cyclonus to pay  _ for _ you.” 

“Sure, whatever, you still get paid either way, yeah? So c’mon, bartender. Bar tend.” 

Swerve does look at him then, a flat irritated stare that ends when Drift drops into a seat a few stools down. 

Swerve deigns to slide a cube his way after serving Drift, and Whirl is happy to uncoil the fuel line from its compartment in his arm. Given the way the engex is more sludge than liquid, he’s not too upset about the whole ‘no functional sense of taste’ thing. He slurps it obnoxiously enough that Drift eyes him from down the bar, irritated. Whirl eyeballs him right back, slurps louder. Drift manages to convey ‘you are a sparkling and I am embarrassed to know you’ without even an optic roll. 

Whirl  _ would _ be impressed, except that  _ he _ emotes just as much without a face. 

Step it up, hippy.

Drift is distracted from the impromptu staring contest by the arrival of the evening rush, and Whirl takes the opportunity to bolt before Cyclonus and Tailgate notice him from where they’re talking to Rewind and Co. 

Hm, hm. What to do now. Whirl subspaces the cubes he’d snagged on the way out as he books it to the lift. He doesn’t think they’d seen him leave but he’s not about to be caught lounging around if they  _ had _ . The lift shudders down and he taps the wall with a claw as he thinks. His hab’s a bust- the door is still fucked from when those  _ jackasses _ had busted it down and interrupted a perfectly good  _ self-soothing _ session. 

Oil reservoir’s out of the running too, junior’s getting pissy if her snoozes are cut short for anything other than food. 

The lift’s doors are open but he hits the button to close them, right in Ambulon’s face. The medic doesn’t even bother to look surprised, which is fair but irritating.  _ Clearly _ he needs to step it up if his usual rudeness only gets  _ blinks _ . 

Rung’s office is up on the upper levels. Like a no contact order even  _ matters _ , given that Ratchet is clearly off base in more than a few ways. 

Whirl huffs to himself and flares his plating. His guns click online and he snaps them offline just as fast. 

He hits the stop and stares at the scuffed floor. 

Ratchet didn’t know what he was talking about. He couldn’t. 

Rung said it was fine. 

What, like the little guy would lie? It was  _ Rung _ . 

The lift starts moving again and he mashes the stop hard enough the panel warps. 

Shit was screwy up there, okay, no harm no foul trying to bang it back to rights. 

His audials automatically adjust to catch all sounds in the area, filtering out the hydraulic hum of the lift and latching onto his fuel pump’s rhythm. He dials them back down impatiently. 

So what if a little energon got on the wall, it’s not like he didn’t deserve it. 

It doesn’t matter, anyway, Ratchet is wrong. 

Shame what an education does to a mech, huh, melts all the knowledge right outta his audials. 

Ratchet is wrong. 

Whirl traces the scrapes on the floor with a pede. 

Ratchet is wrong. 

So why does he keep having to override his combat protocols at the thought of talking to Rung? The question prompts an idle check to his HUD and his guns online instantly when he catches a ping on his sensor grid, field registering the company well before his processor does. 

It’s a sparkstopping nano-sec of tension before he realizes it must be Ambulon just below, still waiting for the lift to return. Whirl hisses at himself and at nothing at all as he sends the lift back on its way down. 

So maybe he needs to talk to the guy in charge after all.

* * *

Ratchet waves Whirl over.

“Alright, on the berth. The welds holding okay?”

The doc waves a scanner over Whirl before he can answer, even though he’s most definitely not on a berth. 

“They’re fine, Ratch. Not what I’m here about.” 

Ratchet looks at him carefully, nods once. 

“Let me check them over anyway, then we’ll step into my office-”

Whirl cuts him off with a sharp gesture. 

“Not necessary. They’re fine. I’d rather talk  _ now. _ ”

Ratchet doesn’t budge. 

“Let me check them. You’re not the most careful, Whirl. Then we’ll talk, alright?”

Whirl rolls his whole helm in disgust, but gives in anyway. 

A few minutes later, he’s lounging in the chair across from Doc. Ratch doesn’t wait for him to bring it up, just jumps into it.

“Rung has been permanently removed as your therapist. That’s not changing, Whirl.” 

He narrows his optic.

“Not sure why, doc.” he muses, keeps his optic trained on Ratch. “It’s part of my parole, remember? Gotta have a therapist assigned to me, even if I only show once a vorn.” 

Ratchet snorts at that. “Yes,” he drawls. “You absolutely showed up to those appointments.” He sobers, sits up a bit straighter. “Whirl, he was endorsing and actively encouraging self harm. That can’t continue.” 

Whirl looks away without meaning to, drags his optic back to the doc. 

“Whatever, doc. Look, it wasn’t all that, alright? He wasn’t makin’ me hurt myself, or anything.”

Ratchet doesn’t look too happy with that, and Whirl can’t blame him. That was fucking weak, all right. 

“He didn’t have to be forcing you to be causing harm, Whirl. He- listen. Whirl, what was Rung’s job? What was he supposed to do?”

Whirl isn’t a fan of this line of conversation. He shrugs, lets the expansive motion hide how tight his plating is clamped to his frame. 

“Uh, keep me from going ballistic? From just fucking stomping some poor shit for shits and giggles?” 

“Whirl, he was supposed to teach you coping mechanisms and help you set and achieve goals. His job was literally to help you learn to function outside of a war. Instead of helping you with your violent outbursts, he turned you on yourself.”    
Whirl bristles at that.    
“Doc, I’ve been pulling this shit well before I ever met eyebrows. I’m not gonna say he did everything perfectly, what the hell do I know anyway, but he wasn’t hurting me.” 

Ratchet sighs and rubs at his face with a hand. 

“I’ve contacted some leading psychiatric professionals among races sympathetic to Cybertronians. When I hear back from the ones willing to do long-distance sessions, I’ll forward their dossiers to you so you can decide. As you mentioned, you do still need a therapist, per your terms of parole, but you shouldn’t run into any trouble from Ultra Magnus until you’ve had ample chance to examine your choices. If he does get after you, send him my way and I’ll straighten him out. Alright?” 

Whirl scowls, feels his plating clamp tighter.

Yeah, no. It’s not alright.

“You’re not listening, doc. Rung wasn’t-”

Ratchet cuts him off by smacking a hand onto the table. 

“Whirl, this isn’t a discussion. Rung will be evaluated by a review board- probably mostly Camiens, given there’s only one other Cybertronian remotely qualified and he is, ah.” 

Whirl nods, grudgingly. 

“Yeah, no, Sunder is Sunder. I get that. I  _ don’t _ get why you think Rung ain’t qualified.”   
Ratchet sighs. 

“I know. Still, he’s done as your therapist. Now, do you have any other questions?”

Whirl huffs, starts to pull himself up to loom when Ratchet cuts him off. 

“Fantastic. Now get out of my office and go talk to Tailgate so he’ll stop spamming my comm.”

* * *

Cyclonus and Tailgate aren’t back at their hab yet when he gets there, which is fine; he has the code, after all. He doesn’t bother with the little projector setup for movies or the datapads of books, just flops onto their berth. He passes the time by napping at glaring at nothing, alternatively. 

It’s late when the door slides open and he’s had more than enough time to see the benefits of cowardice, so he pretends to still be asleep when Tailgate sits on his abdomen. 

He can feel Unlimited leaning around his cockpit to watch him, but his optic stays stubbornly offline. 

Bah, talking. 

Communication. 

Who needs it, amiright? Cyclonus rustles around the hab for a minute before joining them on the berth and Whirl can feel two sets of optics on him. Blegh. 

“Whirl,” Tailgate says patiently. 

Nope. He’s asleep.

“Whirl.”

Nuh uh. 

“Whirl.” 

Nada.

Cyclonus skips the banter and instead just scratches a talon across a vent slat. Whirl rockets upright and almost beans Tailgate in the helm with his cockpit as he swears at the purple bastard, who has the fucking  _ audacity _ to look smug. Rude. 

He scowls and keeps his claws over the vent protectively. That  _ tickled _ . 

“Whirl,” Tailgate says again, now that he’s admitting he’s awake. 

Whirl looks at him, then looks away. 

“I, uh, I’m. Not too sure about the whole room for three thing. But that’s not what I wanna talk about, anyway.” 

He clicks his claws, clack click. Cyclonus speaks, leans forward to wrap a warm hand around his knee.

“Alright. What did you want to say?”

Whirl squirms in spite of himself. Yeah, this was a mistake. His optic darts to the door and Tailgate intervenes, scrambles around to wrap short arms around Whirl’s neck. “C’mon birdy, don’t run off. Just tell us what’s up.”

He flops back down and stares at the ceiling, helm nestled on Tailgate’s chassis. He hisses out a sigh and tries to put his words in order. 

“Didja mean it, Pipsqueak?”

Tailgate pauses from where he’d been poking at Whirl’s finial, leans over to look him in the optic. 

“Mean what, Birdy?”

Whirl tries again. 

“About. The hab. And the berth.” 

Yeah, that wasn’t right either. He’s about to try again when Tailgate speaks. 

“Wait, you mean about you moving in? Birdy, of course I meant it. Cyclonus and I both want you here, with us.”

Whirl feels the dull wash of panic flush through his lines at the thought, but it's not a bad thought. He bobs his helm idly, feeling Tailgate’s thinner plating yield against his poky helm. 

“You mean it?”

Cyclonus cuts in, his voice rumbling real nice though Whirl’s frame. 

“We mean it.”

Whirl turns his helm enough to hold optic contact with Cyclonus. 

“Yeah, okay. Sure.” 

Tailgate perks up beneath him.

“Really, Birdy?”

Whirl kinda wishes he remembers what smiling feels like. Probably something like this, if he had to guess.

“Really, Legs.”

**Author's Note:**

> basic summary is whirl has been banging his head on the wall for a while, and is very disoriented when someone(s) break into his quarters, with the purpose of beating on him for funsies.
> 
> come catch me on tumblr @megatronismegagone


End file.
